


Strange Evacuate

by Insane_Tomato, pinkdwellermask



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Implied Relationships, dreams in hell, thats really it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insane_Tomato/pseuds/Insane_Tomato, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkdwellermask/pseuds/pinkdwellermask
Summary: hello!!! this is the combined work of mine and my friend, @pinkdwellermask! sorry for not uploading anything, just havent been motivated. hope yall like this!! its a very abstract piece, with no real meaning. but what works have meaning anyway?dream is in hell, and hes trying to escape. hell in this situation is heavily inspired from the backrooms, a creepypasta which is also a game
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Strange Evacuate

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! this is the combined work of mine and my friend, @pinkdwellermask! sorry for not uploading anything, just havent been motivated. hope yall like this!! its a very abstract piece, with no real meaning. but what works have meaning anyway?
> 
> dream is in hell, and hes trying to escape. hell in this situation is heavily inspired from the backrooms, a creepypasta which is also a game

Dream’s feet dragged and marched to the beat of his forgotten heart; there was less of a thump to the rhythm, but a _ thunk, thunk, thunk _ as he pranced his death march. He didn’t know why he was here, where here was, but he knew every secret to where the depths of his brain itched and scratched for forgiveness. He marched on.

He dragged himself through an endless cacophony of the same pale yellow wallpaper, some with designs and some with naught but yellow stripes. His vision swarmed with dots edging like bees, but when he focused they went away. It was better if he focused. He needed to escape. 

Past musty carpet and vomit-stained vision, he walked along endless corridors seeming to be straight but in reality curved. Nothing was ever straight; there was no line from point to point in this realm. There was nothing but curve, curve, curve. He walked with his heart just to the left of where it was supposed to be.

His clothes changed every time he looked down, but there was always the same platter of bloodstains strewn across his chest. Faint nostalgia creeped up his heart as he stared with a graceless vision. 

It had been days turning into seconds since he last saw those shadows. Each of them had figures he had faintly recognized as his victim, and each of them had simply left him along. Dream had figured out the rhythm of the nightmares long ago, since the sun began setting but after the invention of mankind. 

He had long since forgotten the feeling of rest as his legs shifted on, begging for collapse and release. It was worthless to try and remember emotions and timelines when there were never any to begin with. He was microfocused on every fuzzy move he made, whether it be an irregular breath or the slight twitch of his fingers. He could feel everything as he was numb. There was never anything to feel. 

He walked. He walked. He walked. The shadows were creeping closer, but it was just like how he had seen it before. Observing one out of the corner of his eyes, he could suddenly remember how he had gotten here in the first place. It was because of his murder, wasn’t it? Or had he been murdered? Maybe it was suicide. However the case, it was blood, it was blood, it had flowed onto his arms and his chest and it was beautiful. It was a comforting cloak, carrying with it the ever present linger of rot. It was worth the cost of this short eternity.

There was every single escape in sight, but none were quite reachable. He hadn’t figured out the rhythm of the endless static, the beat of the flattened drum. He marched on. The figures vanished, and Dream couldn’t feel again. Maybe they reminded him of home, which was any place but here. But it was probably because they were the only semi-living thing in his world at the moment, if this was a world. He wasn’t quite sure. 

His calves were on the floor, but he could see them just fine. His vision was so, so fogged but it was manageable to walk through the dizziness. He didn’t quite understand what it was that he was running from, but he knew he shouldn’t question it. It was unreasonable to question things at this point.

The state of perplexity always clashes with the deep desire to understand your fate; however, he  _ knew  _ this was his fate. No matter how deep his heart sang with the optimistic lie, he knew. But he marched on; not necessarily out of the need to survive, but out of the fear of what would happen if he stopped. What would happen if he stopped?

He didn’t, he never would, he never could. The endless walls closed around him, giving him room to breathe should he remember. He didn’t understand how his breath could escape him so many times, but he had long ago realized he didn’t need to. But it helped to calm him down, at least to where he stopped thinking.

He pushed past corridors with no doors and hallways that seeped blood behind him. He looked behind him. It was a mistake; his vision was punched and his legs buckled. He snapped back around and marched on. That’s what would happen if you chose to rest. He would make sure to never remember that. 

Adjectives seeped out of his mouth, but no sound was muttered between his teeth. Did he have teeth? Were they real? He couldn’t tell; they didn’t entirely feel like bone. He could feel every last one of his organs twisting around each other. They were all just a little vertical of where they were supposed to be. They twisted and danced and sang while he marched on.

He marched on. His feet had holes in them he couldn’t see. He marched on. His lungs shrank and expanded too quickly for his brain to register. He marched on. His brain chose to remember every murder and death he had caused, and how it all concluded to his eternity here. He marched on. He marched on. He marched on.

The walls looked so comfortable with their microscopic spikes, and it was so tempting to rest upon them for even just a second. But there was no good ending to rest; there was no conclusion which involved sleep. There was nothing but crawling onto the probable escape.

He couldn’t remember how long he had been here, and why his clothes never changed. Ease was such a strange and distant memory to him; he had no time for memory. He wasn’t quite sure if time existed here either. Measurements of cups and grams and meters and distance were all skewed, buried deep underwater and in between the soil of the earths. “Clear” wasn’t a very clear statement where he was, wherever that may be. 

Each time he saw the end, the walls expanded again. He never touched the paper begging for affection by the walls; he knew no good and no harm would come from it. The base of the walls chanted it’s love, but he refused to hear. He couldn’t understand their nonsense facts anyway.

Facts, facts, facts, all useless to his mission. What was his mission? Survive? Escape? Everything he knew was useless, everything he felt was useless, useless, useless. He tried, but it wasn’t enough. He begged, but nobody heard. 

The end was always expanding, just out of reach for his eyes to be teased. He swore he heard birds, whatever they could look like now, but he was met with the walls of his demise. The blinds for the ghosting windows flipped and flopped, the doors that never shut were dancing in his head. 

In his head, there was a distant memory of a forgotten love humming in the bushes. It was lovely to even think of; he could hum the melody if he had a throat. It was so strong, he could almost taste the smell of soft roses and strong leaves. It was lovely. It was colorful. The walls returned; he was met with pale yellow once again.

The only object which stayed the same in this hell (was it hell? Was he in hell?) was the walls, the walls, the endless walls. They remained the same shade, the same pattern, the same height, the same perpetuity of infinity. The concept of infinity was an idea he never could grasp, but if he ever got out, he’d understand. This was the concept of infinity. 

Dream pushed on, his only motive the lanky chance of any reward. His brain knew that rewards were nonexistent in this, but he battled nonexistence with opportunity. It was a one sided battle, but he’d give it a chance. He’d give it a chance.

At some point, it had gotten to where each step was slow, much too slow, like the floor was tar. That sort of exhaustion from a hike, or a long walk. The type to grip your legs and pull you down. He couldn’t stop, no, he had to continue, rest wasn’t an option.

The near blinding lights hurt his eyes. When had been the last time he closed them for longer than a moment? Had the lights always been this bright, this uncomfortable? They burned, a stinging feeling that reminded him of chlorine. Little pricks against the back of his eyelids, in his eyes. 

He turned his head back down. The lights wouldn’t help him.

Another step. One foot in front of the other, a repeating pattern as he treaded the halls. Left, right, left, right. Something to focus on, if his mind could just grasp the movement. He knew what he was doing, yes, but at the same time it didn't  _ register.  _ He knew what he was doing but he couldn’t place a word to it. 

There was a tingling feeling in his arms, in his legs. He pressed forward, he had to, he couldn't stop for some small itch. Little shadows danced under his feet, and his eyes were drawn to their blurry edges. Were they always blurry? Was this him, his own shadow, or something else? It was synchronized with him, left, right, left, right. A little mirror on the ground.

Walking the halls gave him some odd sense of dread, though as well as maybe comfort? He couldn’t put a name to the feeling. It was familiar, but it was suffocating. The feeling gripped at his chest, tightening around him, curling and tight and yet he knew it was right. He had to feel that.

Feeling. He could feel. He could feel his sleeves, much too tight against his arms, the fabric feeling less like it probably should have and more coarse. His arms swayed, yes, but it was limited. He was limited. He could only walk, walk forward, walking forever, just walking.

He couldn’t see those shadows below him, it was too dim for them, too dim for shadows to form. Or was it that it was  _ only  _ shadows, now? It could be. Little waving figures from the dark, pooling at his feet, on the floor and on the walls, dripping from the ceiling.

Had the shadows been moving? They never moved. No, that was him. Had to have been him. Could only be him. It was only him, only him and the halls, only him and the quiet, him and his footsteps.

He had to be nearing an exit. He had to be. He’d been walking for so long, and yet he didn’t ache. He wasn’t sore, he had to keep going. He would find an exit, wouldn’t he? He had to. It had been so long, and yet when he looked up, his eyes couldn't find an end. Maybe there was fog, or his mind had simply forgotten what an exit would have looked like.

Not being able to put a name to feelings or motions was beginning to become almost painful, but he couldn’t feel it. No, it was no more than an extra itch near his throat.

A blink. He could blink but he didn’t want to. The exit was getting closer, it had to be. He had to keep watching, keep walking, keep moving, only moving.

There was buzzing from the lights. It was white noise to him, always there, always filling his quiet. It was faint, always above him, getting softer when he dipped his head. The almost static like feeling from it wrapped around his head, stifling his own footsteps, but he could still hear them, couldn’t he? He could just hear the buzzing from the lights more.

The halls offered no sympathy for him. Neutrality, staring with its wallpaper. Near the baseboards it was peeling. Little flecks of it, he could sometimes see on the floor, if his eyes let him focus, if he was able to see more than just the vague color.

Dream kept walking. It’s all he could do. He had to. He had to keep walking, keep moving forward. Only forward, only in that line. One foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right. He would think, briefly, that maybe this was the end of the line. The thoughts are always chased away by the buzzing of the lights, or they’d die on their own. He doesn’t think much of it. He can't. Can't get distracted from his goal. What goal? He can't remember. He had one, hadn’t he? Get out. Yes, that had to be it.

Staring forward brought no answers. Only endless halls, walls stretching ahead miles. When he finally thinks he may be getting close, it just gets farther and farther away, just out of reach. He could try running. He  _ has _ tried running. He can't run, no, he can only walk. He had to walk.

He tries apologizing. To who, he doesn’t know. The words die in his throat before he could even think of a name for it to go to. It’s a tight feeling, not being able to speak, but he doesn’t  _ need  _ to speak.

He was close, he had to be. He was walking, left, right, left right. He had been walking. It had been so long to him, it had to have been, it wouldn't be that only minutes passed. Time was lost to him, everything was, he knows. He knows that but he doesn’t know. He only knew the halls, the stained carpet and the quiet lights. He only knew his own footsteps, the biting cold at his loose clothes, chipping away at him slowly, ever so slowly.

Almost every part of him was hellbent on escape. His brain told him it was close, he was close to escape, to freedom. But the rest of him knew otherwise. His brain was optimistic, but his heart knew he wouldn’t leave. He knew.

And so he kept walking.


End file.
